Page 27 of Mated to the Monster God

ESME

T wo years pass like water under the roots—slow and steady, reshaping everything in silence.

Sweetwater grows.

We get a few dozen new colonists every season now.

Some are scrappy survivors from other settlements.

Others are brave idealists who heard whispers of hope in the stars and came chasing rumors.

We take them all. We teach them the soil, the sky, the silence of this place. We make room. We make family.

And so far? The Combine hasn’t so much as twitched in our direction. Not a scout, not a drone. Just blessed silence and enough time to build something real.

Sagax and I built a hanging garden along the inner wall, a tangle of vines and flowering crops that catch dew at dawn and bloom wide by noon. It was his idea—some symbiosis logic tied to vertical space and nutrient cycles—but I just love how damn pretty it looks.

This morning, I’m up early, checking the irrigation lines while the air still smells like jasmine and sun-warmed stone.

The sun’s barely broken the trees, but the heat’s already climbing, wrapping around me like a lazy hug.

Birds trill somewhere overhead. The sky’s a thousand shades of blue, and everything feels almost too perfect.

That’s when I hear the footsteps. Big, heavy, pissed-off footsteps.

I glance up, squinting toward the hill outside the wall.

And there he is.

Sagax, cresting the rise with a storm cloud stamped across his face—and dangling from his massive hands?

Two upside-down little troublemakers.

“Steven,” I groan, dragging the name out like it tastes sour.

Sagax stalks toward me, expression blank in that very specific I’m-about-to-lecture-someone-into-the-dirt way.

One hand grips the ankle of our son—green-scaled, sharp-eyed, and currently wearing a look of pure guilt and zero regret.

The other? Morty. Wild-eyed, red-faced, and cackling like a goblin.

“This,” Sagax announces, voice deadpan, “is the result of your DNA.”

I cross my arms. “I knew this had Morty written all over it.”

“Incorrect,” Sagax replies, not missing a beat. “Steven masterminded the operation. Morty claims to have only ‘tagged along for moral support.’”

“Tagged along where exactly?”

“The women’s bathhouse.”

My jaw drops.

Steven shifts in Sagax’s grip, trying to look innocent. It’s not working. “It was purely scientific observation,” he chirps, voice too high for his age but already laced with that damn charisma he inherited from me. “Thermal readings, mother. Comparative anatomy. Strictly academic.”

“Oh my God, ” I mutter, covering my face.

“I warned you,” Sagax adds, “that his mental development was accelerated. Chronologically, he is only two. Intellectually, he is fourteen. Biologically… questionable.”

“Questionable,” I echo, shooting our child a look.

Steven grins. “Dad said curiosity was natural.”

Sagax blinks. “ Intellectual curiosity. Not voyeurism.”

Morty, still upside-down and giggling, pipes up. “We didn’t see anything! That tall fence is a menace. Almost fell off the barrel.”

I stare at them. My kid and my nephew. Future menaces to society. Possibly the galaxy.

“Put them down.”

Sagax complies, dropping them both gently to the ground. They land in crouches, looking like criminals caught red-handed.

“You’re both grounded,” I snap.

Morty immediately whines. “Auntie?—!”

“ Grounded. No engines, no climbing gear, no late night snacks.”

“But—”

“ Steven, ” I say, turning on my son.

He straightens, face solemn. “Mother.”

“We are going to have a very long talk about respect, privacy, and not being a miniature pervert.”

“Yes, mother.”

“And you ,” I point at Morty, “are supposed to be the older one.”

“Yeah, but Steven’s got the brains. I’m just the looks.”

Sagax groans softly beside me. “We are doomed.”

I sigh and rub my temples. “Go. Both of you. Inside. Help Blondie scrub the mess hall floor until it shines.”

They bolt like the hounds of hell are on their heels. I wait until they’re out of sight before letting out a noise that’s somewhere between a scream and a laugh.

“Remember when we thought love would be the hardest part?” I ask Sagax, glancing up.

He smiles faintly. “I miss war.”

I snort and nudge his arm. “Liar.”

He takes my hand, threads our fingers together, and tugs me gently toward the path. “Come. We have fifteen minutes before someone else sets something on fire.”

We walk.

Not far, just along the garden’s edge, toward the orchard Tara started last spring. The trees are blooming pink and white, and the scent’s thick enough to taste. Bees drift lazily from blossom to blossom. The breeze is warm and sticky-sweet.

I lean against his side as we go, head resting just beneath his shoulder.

“You handled that well,” he says quietly.

“Wasn’t me. That was the voice of every tired mom on Earth before me.”

He hums. “We’re doing alright, aren’t we?”

I glance up. “With what?”

“Parenting. Life. This.”

I squeeze his hand. “We’re doing our best.”

He stops, pulling me into a loose hug. “It’s enough.”

I smile and bury my face in his chest, breathing him in—dirt, sunlight, and something uniquely him.

“I love you,” I whisper.

“And I you.”

And that’s all we need.

Because love—real love—is messy, loud, exhausting. But it’s ours.

And right here, in this moment, under this sky, with this man?

It’s everything.